The Harlequin's Redemption
by woyston
Summary: What caused the abrupt and psychotic change to the former psychiatrist Harleen Quinzel? And what happens when that cause is isolated by Batman? Chaos and redemption collide as the Queen of Clowns confronts the demons of her past...


The Harlequin's Redemption

**Prologue**

The courtroom was packed already, even though the proceedings weren't scheduled to begin for another twenty minutes. Families with children and lone men and women, both upper and lower class; all sat pressed together on the polished wooden benches that bore years of marks from use. Bright white lights shown down on the throng with brilliant heat, and sweat could be seen glistening on the foreheads of not a few people. The scent was near overwhelming from the somewhat sweltering heat, with little help from the setting summer sun outside, peeking between the tall buildings of the city skyline.

The tall, broad shouldered man stepped through the large wooden doors, seemingly oblivious to the scene. His grey eyes turned in a steady appraisal of the crowd, a computer-like calculation seeming to take place in his head. A blink…and the blank face was replaced by a jovial smirk. Gone was the machine, and Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, started searching for a place to sit up toward the small wooden divider the divided the action from the spectators.

Eventually he was able to weasel his way in between two rather large women at the front, winning his space with a generous smile and a brief handshake. His natural good looks and legendary bachelorhood were common gossip among all classes of Gotham's women, so naturally the opportunity to share a seat with him was worth the extra squeezing. Smoothing the wrinkles in his tailored Armani, he flashed another smile to the women and turned his gaze to the front of the room.

Assistant DA Monica Bellichek was already unloading sheaves of papers from a leather briefcase onto the prosecution desk, two of her own aides laying out more bundles. Bruce thought about the rap sheet, and concluded that there was probably a whole room devoted to this particular felon.

The defendant's desk was remarkably occupied as well, though the short, balding man looked anything but pleased to be there. His own satchel remained unopened on the battered desktop; he wore, strangely enough, running shoes. Bruce did not smile at this oddity.

A chime rang somewhere outside, and like magic, the hubbub died out.

A burly bailiff strode purposefully into the courtroom from one of the side doors, garbed in riot gear with a shotgun strapped to his back. "All rise for the Honorable Judge Bruce Heybourne."

Judge Heybourne had a scowl on his face, but then, he always had a scowl. His dark robes flapped loudly as he exited his chambers and moved to sit behind the imposing oak fortress at the front of the room. A murmur rippled through the courtroom.

"Be seated," he said curtly, his voice a graveled baritone. He left the manila envelope untouched that lay in front of him.

The floor creaked somewhat as the two hundred odd assembled found their seats again.

Heybourne cleared his throat, the microphone perched on the corner ringing slightly. "While I appreciate the enthusiasm of everybody here in witnessing these supposedly secret proceedings, I wish that most of you would have stayed home." There was no humor in his tone. "Bailiff, please bring in the defendant."

The court officer turned toward the door through which he'd entered and swung it open. The silence in the crowd became nearly deafening.

"Hiya hiya!" The high-pitched, Brooklyn accent shattered the quiet like a boulder dropping into a pond, and the mob reacted in kind. Curses, yells, death threats, and other raucous calls pelted the five SWAT members and the small blonde they surrounded. The assault rifles and dark helmets did nothing to deter the crowd, and Bruce found himself swept upward as the two women on either side of him leapt to their feet, vile language pouring from their mouths, their faces twisted with rage.

Judge Heybourne roared into his microphone, but his words were drowned in the chaos. Six more guards trotted into the room and took up positions facing the surging crowd, batons and riot shields held in front of them to form an imposing wall, while their five comrades and the wickedly grinning blonde halted their own forward pace.

It took nearly ten minutes to convince those attending to sit down, and several had to be firmly escorted from the room. Two of those were Bruce's rotund seat-mates, giving him a small amount of breathing space. To his surprise, a lithe young man slipped into the vacant space to Bruce's right, a dark unruly mop of hair framing an impudent, handsome face. "Exciting, isn't it?" Dick Grayson whispered in the older man's ear.

"Hardly," Bruce whispered back. "This is a rotten idea."

"Gotta hate when a politician wants to make a statement," Dick acknowledged. "Seriously, a _trial_? Is Burt insane?"

"Certifiably."

Judge Heybourne had retaken his seat, and the defendant was led to the far side of the defending desk. The defense attorney had scooted as far as he could to the opposite end as the woman took a seat, leg and arm manacles jingling like a jester's bells. The guards took posts behind her, their hard eyes wary and attentive.

"Another outburst from this gathering and I'll bar _all _of you and proceed behind closed doors, is that understood?" he growled, leveling a gaze at the audience that burned.

"My, but that voice sounds familiar," Dick hissed good-naturedly into his companion's ear.

"I'll beat you later."

"This day, the thirtieth of May, two thousand and eleven, the proceedings of the People of Gotham versus Harleen Francis Quinzel are opened," Heybourn intoned into the mike formally. "The charges are—"

"Hey, Your Horror," interrupted the brazen blonde, "I think you're getting all worked up for nothing."

"—murder in the first, second, and third degree, manslaughter," Judge Heybourne continued doggedly.

"It's not like anybody _important _died," Harley continued, blithely ignoring the older man's droning voice.

An angry rumble drifted through the courtroom, and the guards shifted nervously.

"—extortion, racketeering, theft, carjacking—"

"Girl's gotta make a living somehow."

"—kidnapping, assault and battery, destruction of public property—"

"I think you need a new name," the Harlequinn announced. "Something that fits someone of your obvious esteem. Like…Heywood!"

"—fraud, and six hundred counts of impersonating a nurse." Judge Heybourne took a breath. "How do you plead?"

"Heywood…Jablomey!" she spouted at the top of her lungs, and then laughed maniacally.

The crowd's quiet murmur grew louder, angrier; Monica Bellichek rolled her eyes in exasperation, obviously wondering why this farce of a hearing was even taking place.

There was only the creak of the bench behind Bruce to give any warning, but the man in a red cardigan moved before anybody could stop him. A rock the size of a man's fist hurtled through the air, between two of the guards, and struck the blond princess of crime square in the back of the head. The impact blasted her face forward ferociously into the top of the table with a loud crunch of smashing cartilidge.

The uproar was immediate. The guards hauled the petite woman roughly to her feet as Judge Heybourne pounded his gavel mercilessly. The crowd was on its feet and surging forward again, a crush of people mashing against the separating barriers. Bruce and Dick could only dodge against the wall to avoid the coming morass.

Bruce's eyes followed the guards instinctively, wanting to make sure they got the Joker's notorious sidekick to safety. A brief break in their ranks, however, gave him a sudden pause. Harley's face flashed for a moment, and the expression on her face was so utterly different from the insane indifference that he had seen for nearly ten years. Gone was the self-possessed, mocking, grating smile that usually plastered itself on her mouth. Instead, she looked confused, frightened, as if awakening from a sound sleep.

It was an expression that Bruce had seen before many times on the faces of his comrades of the night. It was an expression he had never seen on her face.

"Dick, I have to go see someone," he abruptly announced over the chaotic tumult, and deftly pushed along the wall toward the doors at the back.

"About what?" Dick called after him, trying to follow.

Bruce didn't answer aloud; there was only one thought ringing in his head, a question: what had made Harleen Francis Quinzel, fresh psychology graduate and accomplished gymnast, fall in love with the Joker to the point of abandoning all civility and sanity?

The answer, he realized, may be simple, but the consequences were going to be hell…

_Author's Notes:_

_I had forgotten about this story, but a recent email popped up to announce that another person had read and reviewed it. I'll be working on getting the next chapter finished as soon as I can. Thanks to all!_


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